


Hanssen, Valentine's, Baklava

by the17stairs



Category: Holby City
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22714462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the17stairs/pseuds/the17stairs
Summary: What it said on the tin but most certainly not what you think it means.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Hanssen, Valentine's, Baklava

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommanderInChief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderInChief/gifts).

It seemed so far away now, even if that was far from his first memory. His mother’s voice was ever so soft but he could not remember more than a few words now. It was like one of her silk scarves passing in front of his eyes, hazy but the silhouette was still visible.

“Min Äskling.”

“Mamma, fem minuter.”

He said that a lot when he was little, bed was his safe place, his place to dream and he would give everything to stay just a bit longer.

“Men vi gör baklava idag.”

Perhaps more than a few words, for there was nothing that could make him forget this, the day he learnt how to make baklava, the day mamma finally taught him how to.

Twelve-year-old Henrik Lövborg jumped out of bed and charged out of the room, leaving his mother smiling somewhat exasperated behind.The marble counter in the kitchen only reached his torso but he had a little step that could help him. He raced to grab it, confident that one day he would not even need it.

It took them a whole day to make the filo pastry and fillings. By the time the baking tray went into the oven, his hands were sticky with syrup, the whole house was a cloud of flour with the scent of baked goods. Happiness has a smell and it’s pistachio and sugar.

Papa came home just after it has cooled down, he picked out one diamond shape from the tray and left with little more than a nod. Still, it did not deter him from sharing them to the housekeeper and even attempted to feed the old ginger cat with a bit of the filling. He’d giggled as the feline gave his finger a rough lick and couldn’t find it in him to be disappointed as they turned their bottom at him and trotted away as gracelessly as they did most things.

The evening came with hot chocolate and warm cuddles. The tupperware was now only half full and he already had plans for them tomorrow with his tutors. As he washed the mug carefully and drained it on the washboard next to the sink, there was one thing left to do for the night.

The pen Mama handed him was nothing special, just a ball point pen she had in hand but the act he was about to carry out would be a sacred one.

They went to the calendar that was hanging on the kitchen wall, now on its second page and he placed an X from corner to corner on the fourteenth box, as careful as the letters and words in his exercise books.

“Grattis på födelsedagen, Henrik.”

He thought life could be like this, every year there could be a special day for him and mama. Forever, that would be nice.

He was right, in a sense, if forever only lasted for four years.

\--

He could not bear to think even a second of that part of his life now, yet he was sure it was the last time he was ever truly happy.

He still clearly remembered that morning when he woke up, right next to her.

Curled around her might be a more suitable description. And the smiling, he remembered he woke up smiling.

Making dessert for the woman he loved on his birthday would be the perfect plan for the day.

He brought out the packets of nuts he bought a few days ago while the coffee was brewing and Mahler’s Fifth Symphony filled the kitchen from the record player at the corner. Pistachio, almonds and walnuts. He thought of pecans, Maja seemed to love it to an unusual degree these few days but the taste was too strong and unique to be in this dish. He would just have to do something else with pecans. Candied pecans, perhaps. Or a pecan pie. Or - or - or…

He blinked and realised his train of thought was carrying him far far away.

Picking out his favourite chef's knife, he began to chop up each type separately. Tip staying on the chopping board while bringing down the heel in rhythmic motions.

He had not planned on doing this with Maja when he bought the variety of nuts, the spontaneity frightened him, to tell the truth. That said, what is love if not a tiny hint of chaos in his order.

Out of the comfort zone, that was what people have been saying what an adult should be.

Pistachio was always going to be the main component of baklava, what mama taught him and he was not ready to change that aspect of the order. The green hue that gleamed through the cross-section filled in for the warmth that Stockholm always lacked.

That said, he would be quite satisfied with a life like this - planning the day, or not, whatever Maja wanted -

“I’m pregnant.”

She must have been standing there, watching for goodness knows how long.

There would never be forever, he should have learnt that lesson when the police knocked on the door when he was sixteen. When papa left without a word, when mama said goodnight for the last time and walked and walked and walked from her own life.

He never finished making that baklava.

\--

If there was a time in his past that he would recall without a pang of regret, it would be with them. Two of them, then three of them, then all four of them. He was not happy, no, but no regrets either.

It took him a moment to realise why he felt like he was waking up to a new world.

The calender had a big X on the the today’s date: 14th February.

It’s Roxanna’s birthday.

He had almost forgotten about the tradition after…well. So when John mentioned a present, he spent a whole afternoon searching in the street of Boston, looking into weird stores and shops that you could hear the music blasting from it a block away. He finally stopped in front of a bakery and found inspiration.

“Roxanna has cleared the fridge out again,” John said the moment he walked out of his room.

“I will go out tomorrow. Where is she?” He yawned into his elbow as he took out the flour, sugar, the three types of nuts and lined the packages up to the side of the counter until they all form a uniform line.

“Out. I made sure she noticed that restaurant doing the Valentine’s day so she is having lunch with David from the year above us, you know the one who wants to be in Cardiothoracics the moment he stepped through the door?”

“Oh yes, thank you.” He saw the twinkle in John’s eyes, lifting the haze before his eyes, just enough for him to smile back, a small curve lining the corner of his mouth but a smile nevertheless.

The lock of the front door clicked before he could actually say anything and in came...two paper bags?

“A little help here!” Roxanna’s muffled voice followed into their small flat.

As they hurried forwards to relieve her burden, his first thought was that the worst had happened - David had broken up with her on Valentine’s day. No doubt John thought the same. Tea and food, he could provide those for as long as she needed them; John will offer her his shoulder. She may not be in the habit of taking care of herself but they can help, they will always help.

“Thanks, boys,” she grinned as she shook out sore arms. “I tried to make breakfast but I forgot I used up all the food last night. Carbonara sounded ever so good at three in the morning.”

John gave him a brief weary look, “Rox, are you okay?”

She was now rooting through the bags, paying little attention to their faces, “Hmmm, what?”

“Roxanna,” it was his turn to try, “where is David?”

“With his sister, they are going to the zoo today I think - aha!” She resurfaced with a triumphant shout, holding a packet in hand.

They both peered closer to inspect the label: Ready made Filo Pastry!

“I - what...?” Hanssen was the first to react. How did she know?

“I found it in the supermarket!” Even at ten in the morning, her grin was infectious, “You don’t have to slave at the counter all day just to make pastry!”

He held the packet in his hands and felt a surge of...something in his chest, warm and just barely small enough to contain behind his sternum.

She continued, oblivious to his emotion, “then that way, I can have the treats earlier!”

“Rox!” John admonished but the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth took away any heat there could be. He brought an arm around her shoulder. “He is not your personal dessert dispenser.”

She elbowed him back promptly.

“Oh please, pretend you are not looking forward to it as much as me.” She turned back to Hanssen, “have fun!”

His eyes travelled back and forth between the two of them, his mouth working on its own accord, “you knew?”

“We have to bribe a nurse who knows someone in HR,” Roxanna looked thoughtfully all of a sudden, “although I can understand the pain of having one’s birthday on this particular day, I hope you have a ridiculous middle name to come with it.”

All he could do was to shake his head,” No - it is the Swedish version of Louie - “ he could feel the heat rushing up from his neck, the spelling read in English coming into mind, “no.”

“Even if you have one, I guarantee you nothing beats Valentine.”

“This was supposed to be just for you,” he offered weakly.

“You’ll just have make more for all three of us!”

“Meanwhile,” he lead her away with a last sympathetic smile over his shoulder to the stone figure behind the counter, “you will not bother him and we can pick what you want to watch later.”

Without having to make the pastry from scratch, he suddenly found himself floundering. The packet of flour was now sitting useless on the counter, so was the new bottle of olive oil. He moved the bottle to one side, pause, moved the flour next to it, paused again. He caught himself wanting to relocate them back to where they were in the first place.

Stanna. Mama’s voice echoed softed in his ears. Andas.

Stop. Breathe.

Soft laughs filled the room when he was not paying attention. One higher than the other, and the same one louder than the other, ones that he realised with sudden clarity that he could pick them out in a huge crowd, in a lecture hall of four hundred perhaps but John always said he had a penchant for dramatics. The viscous liquid in the bottle swayed to a stand still and so did his trembling fingers.

He had presents to deliver.

He opened the first jar of nuts, he needed to prepare them first before concentrating on the sugar syrup.

Sugar and water, two such simple substance that everyone can easily get within reach, give it time and heat and it can turn into a versatile substance that can be used in countless food and not to mention drinks. The two of them like their drinks.

No stirring, only gentle swirling of the pot, careful to scrape off the fluid clinging to the side of the pot with a spatula before crystalising and turning the content into an unyielding lump of rock.

“Hey, try not to drop anything else in the sugar, I have enough paperweights!” Roxanna called.

“I did not drop anything last time,” he replied calmly, “you gave it a stir, the spoon was still sticky. You never know how to clean them properly.”

He watched her smiled sheepishly and couldn’t help returning a small, blink-and-you shall-miss-it smile. Strangely enough, they never seem to miss them, ever.

The bickering and the baking kept going on, and like the surgeon he was going to become, he managed both perfectly well. And like the man he was becoming, he compartmentalised the thought that he could not have possibly done anything right to deserve this: exclamations of joy from his friends when the baked goods came out of the oven, crowding together in the only sofa in the entire flat watching Dirty Dancing on VHS, Roxanna resting her head on his shoulder by the time the credit rolled, John slurring slightly in his commentary while nibbling on his third piece of baklava.

“Happy Birthday, Henrik,” they said before went back to their rooms, way past midnight.

He stared at the ceiling in his bedroom a while longer. Perhaps birthdays (and baklavas) weren’t so bad after all, if only this could last -

No. He could not think like that, he was not a twelve-year-old boy anymore. There was no forever. He turned to curl into his side.

He could take just a bit longer though.

\----

“So are you planning on sulking in your swanky flat on your birthday this year again?”

Hanssen looked up and as he expected, a short blonde woman that was Alice Brown had sat down without prompt.

As always.

He wrote another line on his report, put down his pen and sighed, all done in a fluid movement. If she was anyone, he would just send her away with a well-practiced glance at the door. But then she wasn’t just anyone.

She was Alice Brown. Mother of two, wife of an excitable air hostess.

PA of Henrik Hanssen.

“It was hardly swanky,” He went back to the report before adding as an afterthought, “and I don’t sulk.”

“Yes, you do.” She opened her planner, “Philip’s Pharmaceutical wants to confirm the signing ceremony for next Friday at noon.”

“Fine. Clear my administrative list on Monday. I have a liver transplant with Mr Griffin.”He glanced at the computer screen. “I simply prefer solitude at times.”

“On your birthday? That’s just sad.”

“Why thank you, Alice, I had not realised I needed that pointed out to me.” He deadpanned.

“So come to ours!” She exclaimed, hands thrown in the air, “It’s not as if I haven’t been inviting you since 2015.”

“And I have had dinner with your family within said period.” He barely glanced at her over the rim of his glasses, “besides, were you not planning on anything special with Millicent tonight?”

It was not one of those dinners that he first met Alice’s wife, Millicent, and to deny that first encounter as anything but memorable would be a lie. From the moment he found her lost in the hospital, trying to find the restroom after visiting Alice, she had not stopped talking yet between her recount of rude man at the grocery store to her cheerful comment of his height, it revealed a well-travelled yet sombre soul. Barely a day had passed, he had already been invited over for dinner by an enthusiastic if a little bemused Alice.

Somehow, he had enjoyed these dinners (metaphorically, he had to rescue more than a few unfortunate lasagnas and shepherd's pie). Being close to coworkers were never a good idea but being treated as just another guest instead of anyone’s boss - it was certainly different.

Then again, two children under the age of ten thinking his ability to make edible food as his most remarkable feature was certainly a breath of fresh air.

He blinked and found himself staring at his report.”I’m afraid there is something I must do.”

“Fine.” She stood up and wagged a finger at him, almost motherly - but no one would ever admit to that, “I expect some baked goodies tomorrow.”

He watched her go and could not help but wonder if he has been unknowingly transparent over the years. The thought lingered with him throughout the day but one stray glance at a junior doctor proved to be the contrary: he fumbled with the stethoscope to a comedic degree. So perhaps not.

It was not politeness that he declined, they both knew better than that.

He had avoided making baklava during the year except this day but even then, he was well-practiced enough to have the baking tray in the oven without anymore burnt sugar blocks or bits of flour scattered across the counter that set his teeth on edge. Just as the kettle started whistling to signal yet another ritual of silver needle, the doorbell rang.

A voice announced itself before he could even respond, “Uncle Henrik, it’s us! Mummy burnt tea again!”

As he expected, a boy bounced through the doorway the moment he opened his door but still remembered to put his little shoes neatly next to brogues that were perfectly aligned to the grid lines of the tiles. His brother stuck with his mother.

They followed in with a more sedate pace, Alice sighed, “Sorry, dear, fish pie went up in smokes, literally.”

“It’s alright, Alice,” he gave her a small smile, following her through to the living, “where is Millicent?”

“Millicent is still cleaning and she is not letting us stay in the house a second longer.”

A loud exclamation from the kitchen interrupted them and they found Samuel, eight and three quarters, squatting in front of the oven, shouting in excitement. He unleashed a barrage of questions the moment he saw the two grown-ups. “Uncle Henrik, what are you making? What are we having for tea? Can we watch Mulan again afterwards - ?”

He held up a hand and he fell silent immediately, eyes looking up at him in expectant excitement.

“I am making baklava which is a dessert dish, dinner was going to be egg salad but I am currently to suggestions, entertainment would be your parents’ decision. My question in return was do you remember our agreement regarding going into kitchens on your own?”

Samuel made a face as he reached out to tug Hanssen through the threshold, “there you go, not alone anymore.”

Children, they had this charming nature of endless creativity that somehow got lost in the process of so called ‘growing up’. He thought of Fredrik, what he and Oskar would be doing today. Whatever their day had been, he was sure that it was better simply because he was not there to ruin it.

Standing in his kitchen on this day however, he could not find any possible refute to that logic, “Then perhaps you could help me with cleaning up?”

The child just shrugged and pulled out a tiny step stool from under the sink.

“If only we can get you to clean the dishes every day after tea,” Alice said, leaning on the doorway, smirking slightly.

“But I will get food at the end of it, won’t I, Uncle Henrik? Like balaklava in the oven.”

“Baklava,” he corrected, “and perhaps later.”

“Whaaaaat?” Came the long drawn out complaint and the sizeable pout. “Why?”

“Patience is the key to making this dish, it takes a while for the sugar syrup to seep through the nuts.”

“Nuts.” He giggled while scrubbing at a container.

Alice threw an unimpressed look at her son, “I wished you could laugh at something less childish, it is as if you are saying I am not funny enough!”

“Ma! I am a child!” He hopped down from the stool, “all done!”

Hanssen knew he would have to run everything under the water once more, from the smallest fork to the largest container that was the food processor even though he was sure Samuel did all he could.

His...idiosyncrasies. It’s better if no one had to deal with them day in, day out.

“You have my thanks, Samuel.” He smiled.

Occasional friendly company, on the other hand, was not so bad.

He turned his attention to Alice who watched her son trotted out again without any further announcements and her other son Sean followed Sam to the living room. “What about your plans for tonight? It’s - “

“Yeah, we know,” she waved her friend’s concern away dismissively, “But she didn’t like going out. Crowded place and all that.”

He nodded, “I sympathise with that feeling.”

She sighed loudly, “It’s not like either of us can cook except the children’s food.”

“How did you actually survive all these years?” He snapped his mouth shut, the idiosyncrasies were rearing its ugly head again. “Pardon my abruptness.”

“Microwave and that one cookbook Millie’s mum left us,” she answered without paying attention the awkwardness radiating from Hanssen, “we are just lucky that they are not picky, no thanks to you.”

The tangled wool that was threatened to fill his mind disappeared with a pop, “Excuse me?”

“Your cooking! Also it would be your fault that Millie wants to make pineapple jam.”

“I beg your pardon?” As far as his culinary knowledge extended, the acidity of the fruit itself would render the product a watery mess.

“You heard me, I will be calling you and take the kids out to the park the moment she lifts a knife to a poor pineapple.”

“Very well,” he might have to consult Mr Lewis after his hernia repair on how to approach such a delicate matter.

“Thank you, and sorry. For interrupting your ‘me’ time.”

He shook his head, watching Sean grabbing his copy of Calvin and Hobbs from the shelf right at his height, it was the brothers’ place in his home, he had realised that until now, “It is nothing, I enjoy their company.” He blinked twice in rapid succession, “In fact, please excuse me.”

He came back before she went through a few pages of the comic with Sean, holding a card. “I believe we have a solution to our…situation. An acquaintance of mine operates a private kitchen out of her own flat and the couple that booked the place cancelled at the very last minute. Might I suggest you taking the advantage?”

Sean still had his face buried in his comic, “Go, Ma, be smoochy where we can’t see you.”

“Okay,” she knew defeat when it’s staring her in the face, especially when Millie’s surprised face made her heart beat twice as fast. “I’ll pick the children up after dinner.

“In the morning.” He corrected. “They have their spare pyjamas in the drawers.”

Alice kissed the children goodbye and walked to her date with a spring in her step. He, on the other hand, enjoyed a night of emergency meatballs with spaghetti and cartoon with the children.

“Happy Birthday, Uncle Henrik!” The two boys said in chorus when the movie started.

He smiled as he passed a plate of baklava towards them, the present was far more important than hoping for further future, it was a present after all.

\---

What past is prologue.

Those who can't remember their past are condemned to repeat it.

All those words meant little to him when his office doors opened to Oskar peering cautiously into the room, Nurse Jackson holding his hand.

He was carrying a backpack half his size and a teddy bear that was slipping out of his grasp every few seconds and he had to adjust his grip. Even then, he wouldn’t let Donna hold it for him.

He would not speak a word. Not when Donna was explaining the situation, not when he sat on the sofa as he arranged to clear his list for the day. Nor when they walked to the car and drove him back to his penthouse flat.

He looked at the high ceiling with wide eyes and stared intensely at the plants lining his balcony. Henrik supposed that this sight is more than lacking compared to the vast garden they must have had in Sweden.

Their dinner was simple. Salad for him, spaghetti bolognese for Oskar. The child offered no opinion on what he wanted so he thought of the first thing that he could think of that a child might prefer. He did give a small nod when he was asked if he was okay with tomatoes.

Not like him, then.

He only had one guest bedroom and there’s a Queen size bed in it. Oskar looked like he’s in danger of being swallowed by the duvet when he climbed on top, still holding the giant teddy bear and Hanssen suspected he would not be letting it go through the night.

Note no. 1: Children in an unfamiliar environment after emotional turmoil might result in …accidents.

As they stood in front of the washing machine, watching the teddy bear and the bedsheet tumbling round and round inside, Hanssen wondered what could a five-year-old have possibly gone through to make him this vulnerable. Oskar still hadn’t said a single word but the tear tracks on his cheeks and the sniffling when he came to his room say enough.

Oskar fell asleep soon enough afterwards but Hanssen stayed up for the rest of the night. The insomnia was familiar, not the reason for it. He could not even work through the night, instead he found himself sitting next to Oskar’s bed, pondering the last year and a half.

It suddenly occurred to him that Oskar could be his only family left in the world.

The thought was not conducive to his sleep whatsoever.

And perhaps he was too focused on the past that he neglected the future. Immediate future, in fact.

Breakfast.

Note no. 2: Children generally like sweet things such as cereal, as opposed to bland and unappealing food such as porridge.

Oskar stared at his bowl and still didn’t speak. There were no words from Hanssen either but he nudged the bottle of honey towards him, he prepared as much.

Not as much when the child unscrewed the top and dumped half a bottle into the bowl. There was still half a bowl of brown sludge 45 minutes later.

Oskar spent most of the day in the balcony, pointing at various plants and waited for his grandfather’s explanation.

He offered a water can to him when he has finished introducing his last bonsai tree to Oskar and told him where to pour the water in the soil in one of the cactuses.

Oskar smiled for the first time when the water trickled down the bottom of the pot, indicating there was enough water for the soil to absorb. He saved that image, a shutter of a mental camera, afraid that if he did not do that, he would be denied that ever again.

Finding a school for him was no less easy to navigate but it was only the first step. He could not even ask if he wants to have a different last name in case someone found out about his father.

The day he came back with a smile on his face, Hanssen finally let out a breath he did not know he had been holding for days. It felt like the first thing he did right in decades.

Note no 3: Most children are more active than average adults and thus prone to falls and injuries.

The rational part of him acknowledged that it was just a cracked ulna from falling off the monkey bars. Every single fibre remaining in his body screamed that this happened on his watch. In the end, the consultant saw his sheet-white face and took pity on him, letting Oskar stayed in for a night’s observation.

There were no tears from the child, not even a sniffle, he did inspect the bandage with curious eyes. When Hanssen was ready to settle down for a night next to his grandson's bedside, Oskar shook his head and said his first word ever since he came to his office.

"Björn."

Bear.

He parroted the word and Oskar nodded this time, before letting his eyelids drooped and starting snoring lightly within the minute.

That was something he could do without messing up. Yet his eyes were drawn to the kitchen island when he stepped into the flat.

Refer to note 1.

It was not anyone's birthday but it hardly mattered. This was his chance to make Oskar smile again.

He may have been liberating with the syrup this time but if it would not affect the structural integrity of the pastry, Henrik did not spare a single thought about it.

Call him a coward, and he had a feeling most people would if they were not scared stiff of him, he had pretended the baklava was a gift from the bear.

Oskar looked pale and miserable in the harsh fluorescent light in the ward but his eyes become brighter when he walked in. At the sight of the bear no doubt, or the box of dessert in his hand.

The plastered arm wrapped carefully around the bear while the uninjured one reached out carefully for a diamond. Henrik would be happy if he got a smile, lucky even.

“Farfar.” Oskar offered the first piece to his grandfather.

Henrik had missed all the firsts with Fredrik, he did not deserve them nor did he ever thought he would have a chance.

“I made them for you, you can have as much as you want.” He paused, “not all at the same time.”

Oskar nodded but still pushed the piece of baklava towards him. Hanssen took one after another second.

It shouldn’t be warm, not after letting the syrup settle and driving back to the hospital. Yet it felt like holding his hands up to a roaring fire when outside was snowing. It felt like love.

There were only two empty spaces in the box but he looked forward to having another one with his grandson in the morning after breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a crack idea of what if Hanssen's middle name had more than just the meaning of Louie, then I saw that Hermione Gulliford's middle name and birthday was exactly that.


End file.
